Skin Dancer (18 page)

“And what would you say?” Rachel asked. It was a mighty convenient answer.

“I wouldn't say anything.” Adam rose to his feet in one fluid motion. “I enjoy the old legends. I collect them and tell them to keep them alive. Most of our history is oral, Deputy.”

“Do you believe in the Skin Dancer?” She rose and stepped to face him.

“What does it matter what I believe?”

She ignored his question as he'd ignored hers. “How many people know that story?”

Frankie answered. “Just about every kid who ever went to school in Criss or Custer or Pennington Counties. I was surprised you hadn't heard of it before, Rachel. It used to be a tradition in public schools for an older member of the Sioux to come and tell stories.” She glanced at Adam. “Is that still done?”

He shook his head. “No one is really interested anymore. Not the public school children or even those on the reservation.”

“The thing that troubles me is the whole matter of the decapitation.” Frankie put a hand to her mouth. “I'm sorry, Rachel. I hope I'm not talking out of turn.”

“It's public record.” Rachel nodded at Adam. “Both Welford and Trussell were decapitated. The heads were removed from the scene and so far, we haven't recovered them. With Burl, we just don't know. We've only found his foot. And there's no trace of Mullet Bellows. He's vanished.”

Adam wrote something in his notebook, and Rachel wondered if perhaps he'd lied to her about what he was recording. When he looked up at her, his eyes were narrowed in thought. “I've gone over the many versions of the legend of the Skin Dancer that I know. None of them involve taking the head of the victim.”

Rachel watched Adam closely. “I have the sense that the heads are trophies. Like hunters take the animal heads. That's what's so confusing here. The murders are a little of this and a little of that, a blend of different things. As if the killer were creating his own version of reality.”

“You think we're going to see those guys mounted in someone's living room?” Frankie asked.

Rachel ignored the question. “Mr. Standing Bear, do you think someone took the legend of the Skin Dancer and tried to use it to stage Hank Welford's murder?”

“Call me Adam, please, and the answer to your question is, I don't know.”

“There was a bamboo pole left at the site. A single owl feather had been used to decorate it. Sound familiar?”

Adam shook his head. “The owl is an important animal to the Sioux, but it plays no part in the story of the Skin Dancer.”

“At the crime scene, it looked as if a ceremonial ritual had been performed, a dance around the bodies.” Rachel could clearly see the pattern of the dance steps. “The dancer or dancers used the boots belonging to the victims. Whoever is doing this knows a lot about physical evidence.”

“For the Sioux, the dance can have many meanings. Perhaps in this case, the killer is celebrating victory. He has conquered his enemy, rendered him dead in a most brutal way. The feathers could be a symbol of victory or a warning.” Adam shrugged.

“Maybe it was just someone who had a score to settle with these particular men,” Frankie said as she stood up. “I hate to end this, but I've got things to do before dark.”

“If you keep lying down with dogs, Frankie, you're going to end up with fleas.” Adam spoke quietly, but his eyes held another message.

“Thanks for the tip.” She stood on her toes and kissed Adam's cheek lightly. “Come to one of my dinners. This road is going to happen, whether you want it to or not. You might as well get the best bargain you can while there are still points to be negotiated.”

He nodded but turned away. He walked to the edge of the butte, the yellow dog instantly at his side.

Rachel followed him. “Adam, there was a silver, ornamental toe clip for a boot pinned to Hank Welford's chest with a porcupine quill. Does that mean anything to you?” 

“It's hard to say without seeing this ornament.”

She couldn't tell if he was dodging the question or not. “Is there someone who can verify your whereabouts last night?”

“Do I need an alibi?”

“Maybe.” She watched him. “Do you have one?”

“I live alone, Deputy. I can show you the book I was reading, but there's no one to confirm that except Finder. He knows my every move.”

“That may not be good enough.”   

Adam pointed into the distance. A cloud of dust began to settle and reveal the horses she'd seen earlier. They'd covered a good bit of ground and were still moving.

“This weekend I need to move the herd to the south. Would you like to join me?”

Rachel hesitated. She had the sense that Adam Standing Bear had told her only what he wished her to know and his invitation came out of the blue. “Men are dying, and I have no idea what to do to stop it.”

“Meet me at the base of the butte Saturday at two. I'll have a horse for you. And maybe some answers.”

“I never learned to ride.” Rachel cast a look at Frankie, who stood at the truck, watching them with interest.

“My horse will teach you. Be here at two.”

“At two.” Rachel agreed before she joined Frankie at the truck.

“And don't even try to tell me that was business,” Frankie whispered as she opened the truck door and got in. When the door was shut, she continued. “Adam is a great guy, Rachel, but he's opposed to the road. Don't forget that.”

“Meaning?”

“People who get involved in causes can justify some crazy behavior.”

 

Derek punched in the number to his mother's cell phone, pacing the confines of his apartment as he waited for her to answer. He'd spent the whole day moping around, flipping on the television and turning it off. He hadn't claimed the death of Burl Mascotti for WAR. That moron Mullet was still missing, and Derek understood that if Mullet was alive and able to hold a gun, he'd kill Derek or any member of WAR. It had gone from a publicity strategy to a dangerous situation.

The phone continued to ring and he checked his watch. It was five o'clock in Bisonville, which meant she'd had a couple of hours to put herself into a martini frame of mind. It was always easier to deal with her when she'd had a drink or four.

“Hello, Mom?”

“Derek, darling, you must need money because you never call unless you do.”

He hated that she always made him feel small and powerless. “Yes, Mom. I need some money.”

“Let's see, what am I funding now? Organic gardening, no, that was the last ten thousand I sent. But it didn't work out. Too many bugs, too little water.” She sighed. “Rammed earth houses? No, I think that was 2005, wasn't it? Seems your partner cheated you out of the start–up funds.”

“Stop it, Mom.” She listed each of his failures like jewels on her fingers. “I need some clothes. And a nice car.”

“Oh, Don't tell me you're interested in the ‘capitalistic trappings of success.'”

She could mock him if she wanted. All he had to do was put up with her long enough to get her to agree to send the money. “There's a new development going in here in Criss County. It's computer related. Clean, non–polluting. I thought I might apply for a job in the marketing department.”

The silence that stretched over the phone line made him smile. At last he'd stunned the old bat into shutting her mouth.

“Are you serious?”

He made it a point never to lie to her, even when it would have been so much easier. “I am. I need a sharp suit, some shoes, a fancy car—second–hand is fine–but it has to look corporate and successful.”

“How much?”

“Twenty grand?” It wasn't like she was taking it from her own accounts. He had a trust fund, thanks to his father who'd died when he was eight. The old man had left him piles of money, but he couldn't get to it without his mother's permission until he'd “achieved a level of success that proved his ability to manage money.” And his mother was the judge of that level.

“I'll send the money, but under one condition. I want you home for the Fourth of July.”

He started to complain.

“Stop it, Derek. You will come home. The newspaper carried a story about some awful killings out there in South Dakota. Some maniac is on the loose and one of those crazy animal rights groups is involved.” There was a hesitation. “You aren't—”

“I know all about it, Mom. If I'm working in corporate Oz, I'll be perfectly safe. That's what they're calling this development. Paradise, the Emerald City of technology.” He knew how too manipulate her, and by giving her that nugget to focus on, he could avoid questions he didn't want to answer. “Can you wire the money to my account here?”

“Yes, tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Mom. We'll talk later.” He hung up before she could say any more. He tapped the phone against his palm and grinned. If Justine was going to get cozy with the movers and shakers of corporate rape and pillage, he intended to have a front row seat. He had lost his trust in her, but not his feelings for her. If her idealistic nature and her passions had led her to make some bad decisions, he had to know the full extent. He intended to find out her role in the mannequin and the murders, and from there he'd decide what he had to do to protect her.

He went to the closet and brought out the plastic covered suit he'd purchased. On the floor was a shoebox with a new pair of shoes. Leather. The micro–fiber boots he preferred wouldn't work where he was going. Now that he knew his mother would send the money to cover the bad checks he'd written to make his purchases, he could attend the Paradise development meeting without financial worries. Justine would be there, with Richard Jones. He had to be there, too.

# # #

The telephone on Rachel's desk rang and she reached for it. She'd been returning phone calls and following leads from people who'd called in tips about the murders. Nothing had panned out, but every lead had to be pursued. She was thinking about the story Adam Standing Bear had told her and she found herself trying to match the elements of the legend with what had happened in the Hills.

Adam was a prime suspect. He had motive, means, and opportunity, and he also had the potential to help her solve this case—if he wasn't involved.

She picked up the receiver and started to answer when the sheriff stepped out of his office, his face pinched with weariness and pain, and signaled her in. Hannah Bellows' sharp voice came through the receiver before she could get it to her ear.

“You sat on your hands and did nothing. Now Mullet is gone. Everyone in town is saying the murderer got him or else he got eaten by a panther. My husband is dead because you're an incompetent bitch.”

Rachel took a deep breath. “Mrs. Bellows, I don't have any new information. I'll be in touch if I do.”

“Bunch of Barney Fifes. Why don't you get back to nippin' crime in the bud? Just nip it! I hope they don't give you real bullets–” Rachel put the phone gently back in the cradle.

“I've got the CSI report from Rapid City. Gus is on the speaker phone,” Gordon said.

She followed him into the office and closed the door. It was unnecessary. There was no one else in the department. Every available member of the sheriff's posse, the Search and Rescue, the mounted police, and volunteer fire departments were all in the Black Hills searching for Mullet and the remains of Burl. The S.O. was like a funeral home.

Gus was speaking when she walked to the desk and took the chair Gordon indicated.

“Is Rachel there?” Gus asked.

“I'm here. What did you find?” She hoped the forensic guys could do some television magic and come up with a lead.

“That silver boot clip in Welford's chest is definitely handmade, not manufactured. I've tried every boot manufacturer in the states, and no one recognizes the pattern.”

Rachel tapped her fingers on the arms of the chair. “It is unique. Like malformed alphabet letters. Thanks, Gus.”

“We've refrained from giving the media the detail about the boot clip,” Gordon said. “It's possible, though, that we should. Maybe someone can identify it and what significance it has in this case.”

“Let's hold off,” Rachel said. She wanted Adam to at least see the silver piece before that information was released to the media. “Now that we know it isn't manufactured by a big company, we can check some silver artisans. Any DNA results on those hairs in that barrette?”

“Nothing yet. I realize this is a serious case for you guys, but we're handling cases for the entire state. The owl feather came from a mature bird. We're checking sources. Legal and illegal. Sad to say, but there are plenty of those. The pole wasn't anything special. Normal bamboo, can be found all over the United States, used for fishing poles. The feather was tied with fishing line. Also too common to trace. We just couldn't come up with anything that was unique or unusual except the toe guard.”

There was the sound of pages turning. “At the second site, the hair that you found was from a black panther. The tooth marks on the foot that was recovered were made by a large cat. Not much doubt that Burl Mascotti was killed by the animal. And that's about all I can tell you.” He cleared his throat. “Any sign of the missing man?”

“None,” Gordon said. “The search teams haven't found anything.”

Gus whistled softly. “Do you think these incidents are related?”

Rachel took the question. “Yes. I'm not sure how, but two instances of known poachers being attacked, I'd say they have to connect.”

“Then you've got a loo–loo of a killer on your hands. Check with Charlie. I think the coroner had some new facts that went through him. Chain of command and all.”

“Thanks,” Rachel said. She was already headed for the door before Gordon could issue an order.